


The consciousness of loving and being loved

by yolkinthejump



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale plays guardian angel for gay men and always has, Crowley's Service Kink, Domesticity, Fluff, Gay solidarity, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), brief mention of past period-typical homophobia, they're happy and in love and married and that's that on that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24030673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yolkinthejump/pseuds/yolkinthejump
Summary: A summer day at the cottage. Nothing of note; and that itself is worth noting, isn’t it?Aziraphale's hair is floofy and Crowley's heart is (shh, don’t tell anyone) a delicate, wobbly thing still, flush with peace at long last. The two of them banter, flirt, discuss the neighbors, and enjoy being just a couple of married blokes in their garden.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 247





	The consciousness of loving and being loved

**Author's Note:**

> s/o to the [go kink meme request](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=540008#cmt540008) for the inspiration!

It’s looking to be a very idyllic sort of day, really: The lazy bloom of summer is out in full force, just the right balance of heat-to-humidity to warrant a good bask, a cold lemonade, a stroll in the garden. Warmth that coils as wood on a fire, crackling a familiar, soft tune, signaling safety. Warmth like the embrace of a loved one. It’s the kind of weather that brings with it a clean sort of sweat that clings without stifling, bringing not discomfort, but a reminder singing _you’re here, you’re alive_. 

Crowley rises from his nap refreshed. Energized. There’s a comfortable buzzing under his skin, lit by the late morning sun. He stretches long and slow, spine arching serpentine, jaw open a tad wider than human on a yawn. The jersey of his top, faded grey and loose at the collar, slides like silk over his heated skin. The band on his left hand catches the light, singing gold promise and whispering time enduring, evermore. He feels _indulgent_ , waking up so suffused with heat. The porch swing rocks him gently as a babe as he shifts. Surrounded by plants scattered about the veranda, plush pillows at his back, the breeze off the sea wafting by and rustling the chimes where they sway from the overhang.

He hops up to find where Aziraphale has got to.

(And doesn’t even fall off the swing this time. Probably because Aziraphale isn’t watching—wobbly, fickle whatsit of a bench is always out to embarrass him.)

When his bare feet sink into the dewy grass he flexes his toes, closes his eyes, and tips his face to the sun as if he were one of his plants. Sunglasses superfluous, cast aside hours past. Nothing between him and the sky. A tenderness pulls at him; a gentle, lighthearted ease. Country living suits him. Who’d have thought? It’s a testament to this development, the undeniable fact that is his, and his and Aziraphale’s, contentment, that the anxiety that threatens to well up in him that would have had him deeming the softness of emotion absurd, dreamy musings even outright alarming, not that long ago, today merits only a glancing brush-off. He has learned to accept the peace. _Sod it. I’m happy._

Crowley is _allowed_ to be happy, now. 

He smirks to himself and bends to roll up the cuffs of his jeans—leaning against a column; no way he’s pushing his luck with the swing—ostensibly because it’s hot out, but honestly he knows Aziraphale finds his ankles _fetching_ , and he’s feeling frisky. 

Each time he passes the miniature flag planted in a pot of pink myrtle out front he can’t help the burst of pride that blooms in his heart. Talk of ‘stealing’ from the Almighty is a lot of bigoted rubbish, naturally, but all the same Crowley couldn’t have been more pleased at the _theft_. To take a thing representing, to his mind, indiscriminate cruelty and hollow promises, and reshape it a beacon of shared struggles, community, and resilience, well. Seems rather fitting. Rainbows truly do bring glad tidings, as he sees it, but not due to an act of God, no. Good old Gilbert. 

Making his way round the side of their cottage, past their charming little mailbox and their charming little fence (Picket! White! Pure aesthetic, not meant to keep anyone out, or in. Absurdly picturesque. His heart _delights_.) he walks to where he knows Aziraphale will be. 

He always knows where Aziraphale is. 

Sure enough, Crowley turns the corner, and finds him in their garden. The dream of an Elysian afterworld made corporeal, it is a verdant and prismatic treasury of blooms arbutus to zephyr, tall flowering wisteria a welcoming beacon to all who venture near, ivy painting with broad, high strokes, telegraphing in their twining vines shelter and affectionate, plentiful love. Full of bees and butterflies and life. Wind rustles the leaves, carries salt and cool ocean air, mingles with the menagerie in a delicate, pleasing perfume. Apples, oranges, grapes and berries blend with the flowers in a sweet, Eden cocktail. 

Aziraphale is crouched down by a pumpkin, right at the heart of it all (this has nothing to do with geographic location; wherever he is, that’s the heart) and Crowley’s chest gives a flutter at the picture he paints, so endearingly at odds with his usual presentation: work boots, trousers stained where he kneels, his gloves rough and worn. The sun hat perched wide atop his head should be comical, an open invitation to tease, but Crowley finds himself tragically smitten. 

And the pièce de résistance is that he’s down to his shirtsleeves, a thin tartan pattern in plum and white, _rolled up_ to his _elbows_ , showing off supple forearms. 

_Hells_ , Crowley adores summer.

He keeps to the path, warm stone cutting through moss and clover, guiding his way. He wriggles his toes, soaking up the delicious heat. As he stands over Aziraphale his shadow falls dramatically, just how he likes.

“All right?”

“Mm,” Aziraphale murmurs. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” He surveys their little pumpkin patch proudly and brushes an arm over his forehead, wiping perspiration out of his eyes with a delicate sigh. His shirt is darkened with sweat. 

Something instinctual in Crowley wants to crawl into the crook of his elbow, shove his face right up under his arm. He watches as gloves stained with soil smooth over the pumpkin, fingers tracing the bumps and creases. Strong hands. Life-giving hands. Such a far cry from their time at the Dowling’s, when he’d simply miracle everything to keep up the ruse. He’s a proper gardener now. Glowing with effort, flushed and dirt smudged; it’s so _human_.

“It is that—lovely, uh, day,” Crowley says, swallowing. Then, he quickly amends: “Don’t get too attached, angel. These fellows are for eating.”

His husband—for that is what Aziraphale is, now, officially, though truthfully he had been long before the formality of the thing—smiles up at him. The sunlight dances across his face, stealing glancing touches where it can through the straw crosshatch of his hat. It is hardly their first morning as a married couple and it is not their fifth, or even their fiftieth, but they have 6,000 years unmarried, with hundreds, perhaps thousands of years where they would have, human law be damned, liked to have called themselves so; Crowley imagines it will take at least that long for the simple, stunning reality of _husbands_ that thrums through him at any given moment of their life together to cease striking him with such wonder he can do naught but stop, and bask.

“Have a pleasant sunning, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, after a pause. Teasing twinkle in his tone. “Survive the swing?”

“Ye _s_ , it, mrh,” Crowley grumbles, face flushing, tongue stumbling as he realizes he’s been caught staring—no, _gazing_ , at Aziraphale.

“You ought to be more careful.”

“ _You_ ought to extend more concern for the care of my arse, really.”

A glittering laugh startles out of Aziraphale and he brings his hand to his mouth. “Crowley!”

Crowley offers him a hand up. Aziraphale’s eyes flicker over him, rest at his ankles— _ha!_ —and Crowley’s knees go wobbly as he wraps one thick, rough glove around the fine joint there and squeezes, just briefly. He takes Crowley’s fingers in his own, and pulls him to standing. 

“I’ll thank you to take my side in these things.”

“Oh, I do, dear boy,” Aziraphale says. And he _pats_ at Crowley’s backside before settling a hand at the base of his spine. Proprietary, and casual as anything.

Crowley stammers, glares with exactly zero heat at the cheeky smile he gets in return. So soon from his lazy doze leaves Crowley open, an easy target for teasing, and Aziraphale knows this. Roguish twist of his lips aside, his eyes are the very picture of innocence. Eyebrows drawn up on a dare. There’s something in his angel that can’t resist a little idle innuendo. A consequence of a seasoned pleasure-seeker finally let loose with his affections. After all their years together, still it is extraordinary: the uninhibited, easy way Aziraphale touches him. So confident in his claim.

Crowley can’t get enough.

 _Tell me how I’m yours_ , his body sings, but what his tongue fumbles is, “hnf—an, a, uh, anyway,” and he blinks, deliberate and slow, “so. A bit small. How’re they doing?” 

He gestures to the pumpkin with their still-joined hands. 

Aziraphale’s thumb strokes his knuckles. “Splendidly. Come time I’m sure it’ll be just—oh, there will be so much to try! I’m particularly keen on the torte, and the butter, and bread… mm, I didn’t know how I’d take to the preparation of meals, but it’s been such a delightful experience, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Brilliant.” _And I’m excited to watch you try it_ , he thinks. Though he’ll have at least a bite himself, just to see what the fuss is about. 

Never mind current trends, his angel has loved pumpkin spice anything for more than half of _all time_ . Attempting to recreate a roasted dish Aziraphale had raved about in 982 BC will, Crowley knows, bring its challenges, but it’ll make for a lovely surprise. Crowley gets the most pleasure out of watching Aziraphale. The satisfaction in the providing of meals for him is a classic tune, but the making of the meals _himself_ is a whole new kind of welcome wonder he’s started to become rather addicted to. 

Aziraphale brings their joined hands to his lips, drops a warm kiss to his palm, and Crowley in turn ducks his head to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek, made pink and irresistible in the sun. He catches a glimpse of cloud curls, matted at the edges, buried under the hat. Aglow like a prize pearl. He leans against damp skin and takes in the scent of him, the salt of his sweat and a sweet, sharp spice. Like ginger and oranges. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale breathes, sounding utterly content. 

The hand at Crowley’s lower back nudges him closer and he goes willingly, melts right up against _his husband_ , the soft swell of Aziraphale’s belly fitting neatly within the indent of his own. With his free hand Crowley tips his hat up so that he can kiss higher, at his temple, before moving to his lips.

They kiss and kiss and kiss, unhurried in a plush, casual pressure, soft as the summer breeze humming light around them. Aziraphale’s lips curve in a smile against his and Crowley lets go of their joined hands, winding himself closer, chasing more of him, much as he has for millennia. They come together flush in a slow, but irresistible, inevitable, pull.

Flashes of love spark blooms of color as buds open, as vines climb and leaves spread around them—Crowley trails a hand to Aziraphale’s jaw, teases fingers at the edge of his hair. He flicks a tongue, just a taste, against Aziraphale’s mouth, and for his ardor is rewarded by a soft noise, and a hand to his neck. Aziraphale pets at the wisps of hair broken free from its loose bun, damp with sweat. Crowley shivers at the rough fabric of the gloves, at the knowledge of earth smeared against his skin. 

The straw hat dips further and further back as Crowley’s hands sneak further and further up, following the trails of wet into his angel’s golden hair. 

Aziraphale breathes his name against his lips, whispers, “Careful.”

A gust of wind, not altogether natural, carrying a distinct, occult bent, roasted apples and lavender and _mischief_ , and the hat floats free—

Crowley plucks it out of the air and wraps his arm around the back of Aziraphale’s shoulders, grin full of teeth against his cheek as Aziraphale giggles. He noses close, kisses him wide right on the bloom of his cheek as he sinks a hand into his hair, fingers deep in the warm wet mess he’s made of himself, feeling the tangible evidence of the effort put into the home they’ve made together.

And then, he leans away. Stares. Feels a bit of snake creep over his face as his eyes go wide.

“Mm. What is that look for?” Aziraphale’s fingers curl at Crowley’s back, reluctant to let them part further.

“Your hair, angel.”

The whole of it sits a chaos. What isn’t damp and unevenly stuck to his skin is made wild and full in its frizz, curled out of its usually neat gelled appearance in a puff of white gold. 

Realization dawns and “ _Oh_ ,” Aziraphale says, flustered, hand leaving Crowley’s neck and going to fuss at his head. “Oh, it’s a mess, isn’t it? It’s the humidity, it—it isn’t even that high and it still gets like this…”

Adorable! 

“You’re so _fluffy_ ,” Crowley coos. He catches Aziraphale’s fluttering hand and kisses his knuckles. 

Aziraphale tuts at him. 

Dropping the hat behind him, Crowley brings both of his own hands to Aziraphale’s hair, kneading his fingers in at the side. Dark where it sits flattened and free and wispy where it had been shaded by the hat. The wet at his sides, the matting at his temples, feels decadent, indulgent in its pure humanity; Crowley’s tongue peaks out unbidden, wanting to smell, to taste. Salt-sweet and heady, fresh as the first rainfall.

As if Crowley has flipped a switch, Aziraphale closes his eyes. Both of his hands go back to Crowley. A whisper of a moan falls from his lips.

Crowley chuckles quietly. He always loves Aziraphale’s hair. His own, when loose, hangs down to his shoulders, and thus gets the most attention. But there’s nothing like Aziraphale’s delicate little rings; a perfect halo. Crowley drags his fingers up and through, making gentle fists. Aziraphale has recently let his curls grow out a bit, and the result with the addition of the heat means he looks like a puffed up cat; a sheep in need of a shear. Thick between his fingers. Crowley massages his fingers in deep, kneading his scalp. 

“Goodness. That’s splendid.”

They stand there, the two of them in their garden. Sun-warm and alight. Blooms all around. Crowley with his bare feet firm in earth, fingers in his angel’s dandelion hair. Crowley in his angel’s hands; his angel, his husband, with his flushed face and plump lips and soft eyelashes kissing at his cheeks. Divine. 

Small- _d_ divine: temporal, material. A kind of paradise that is extraordinarily ordinary, made all the more remarkable by its mundanity. 

Crowley hums to himself, melts into Aziraphale further. 

“Oh, did you know, I,” Aziraphale says, with a catch in his voice; he clears his throat delicately. 

“Mm?”

“I meant to tell you: I heard a few of the townspeople discussing us at the market earlier.”

Well. 

Immediately Crowley’s hands still. His spine straightens. His brow furrows.

Aziraphale _tsks_ at him, soothing, eyes a-twinkle. 

“ _They were saying_ , you cynical thing, ‘a lovely gay couple just moved down the way, two older gentlemen, middle-aged—’” Crowley snorts— “‘and you can just tell, can’t you, I think they’ll be a fine addition.’ Comments regarding how tidy we keep the place, our beautiful garden, and the like. I introduced myself, of course.”

‘Of course,’ Crowley mouths, relaxing. Fondness overcoming kneejerk defensive distrust. 

“Nora—spirited young woman, only just moved here herself—and Patrick, a local carpenter, and Glen—well, uhm, they’re coming for tea the day after tomorrow.”

Crowley groans.

“If—if you’re amenable, naturally.”

Crowley turns his groan into a hum. _Mhmm_. Yeah, sure. ‘Course. 

Aziraphale gives a small smile of thanks. “Glen, Patrick’s son, is, mm. Like us.”

“Uh?”

“Gay, dear.”

Softening, and feeling a mushy tugging at his heart that he quickly shushes, Crowley says, “Ah.”

“I don’t think he’s... ‘out.’ Quiet young man, down from university. You know I’m not the most sociable but the way he felt when I approached, oh, darling, with these surreptitious glances at my ring; I just had to.”

Oh, but Crowley loves him. 

“Patrick, bless him, I don’t think he’s intentionally given Glen a reason to fear, but…”

Aziraphale sighs. Not melancholy, more of a frustrated pout at his lips than a frown, the kind he gets when his books are slightly out of place. Crowley pets at his temples all the same. 

“I know you’ve missed helping.”

It was a habit of Aziraphale’s nearly since he had realized where his own desires lay: find those of a likeness, and foster comfort, acceptance, a little bit of peace in a harsh world. Shelter, if they had need. Aziraphale, as an angel, naturally soothes, a beacon of safety and love and there were (are) so many hurting… Well, he does what he can. Crowley had slept through what he’s come to think of as the Wilde Years, and the Labouchere Amendment. Blessedly lucky time for a nap, that. Miserable time. He’d probably have spent it drunk, anyway. 

Before that, sometime after the bookshop opening, Crowley had broached the subject of the _company_ Aziraphale kept. (He’d found out quickly that Aziraphale did more than keep them company, but that’s neither here nor there.) Through much stuttering, _Yess that’s, nghly’know, no. Me too! Blokes. Amg, mean, I’ve only fancied…_ Crowley had become another of Aziraphale’s little cluster of inverts, in a sense, though more in theory than practice. (Mortals are a bloody mess.)

Anyway—Aziraphale had helped him, too. Helping those struggling with themselves was a matter Aziraphale felt keenly, after all. And it weighed on him still. Much did, but this, naturally, he held close to his heart. 

“There’s still so much.... While we were talking I said, ‘my husband,’” Aziraphale pauses, and drops a kiss to Crowley’s cheek, “‘my husband Anthony,’ and when I said that, _my_ , the Love radiating from him nearly knocked me over, right there by the avocados! Such longing, Crowley, it—oh-so-familiar, that admiration, tinged with an envy…”

Crowley slides his arms down around Aziraphale’s shoulders, kisses him light. A reassurance. _I know, I know you ache with them. I’m here alongside you, now._ “Hence: tea.”

“Tea.”

Aziraphale kisses him back, with fervor. 

“One little miracle at a time, angel,” Crowley breathes against his lips, chasing him, pressing firm. He finds himself enthusiastic, the more he thinks on it: “Mingling with the locals, s’probably good, yeah? Positive role model-ing for the kid, rmm, well,” he gives a loose shrug, uses it to push himself forward into Aziraphale’s arms with a hiss. “Ss _s_ ounds nice.”

“ _Nice_ ,” Aziraphale says, teasing, hands wandering down to his backside—

“Gnjl-listen, you—”

Crowley gets a fist back up in Aziraphale’s soft hair, pulls his head back. Playful. 

Sure enough, the look Aziraphale grants him is pure mischief, little twist at the corner of his mouth all Crowley needs to know. The vision of him, eyes closed, throat bared, simmers low in Crowley’s gut. 

Aziraphale licks his lips. Crowley mirrors the action, and thinks of a better use for his tongue: he bends, fluid, to lick at the sheen at Aziraphale’s neck. He opens wide and wet against the slick-salt warmth of him, laps once, twice, feels the pulse jump and hears the fine whimper vibrate from Aziraphale as he kisses him, right below his ear. Aziraphale tightens his grip on his arse and Crowley flows into him, nuzzles right into his curls, breathes deep.

“Crowley...”

“Hn.”

“You know. It’ll be a torment to fix up.”

“Wassat?”

“My hair,” Aziraphale says, carefully. “I’ve half a mind to just miracle it proper, but, mm, I do prefer to take care of it the… human way…” Crowley turns his gaze to Aziraphale’s face. Mouth still mischievous. His eyes peek open, meet Crowley. His voice is wistful, dream-like: “It’s such a tactile… experience.”

“Is it?” 

“Yes. Very.” He huffs. “But tedious. I don’t know that I have the patience, frankly, there’s this new book on the psychology of Dracaena trifasciata I had set aside for later, I was so looking forward to…” 

There’s a Look in his eye. Little glances at Crowley from underneath his lashes, his mouth just slightly open, imploring. 

Crowley resolutely does _not_ roll his gaze skyward.

“I could brush it out for you.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s whole face brightens to rival the sun. “Would you?”

He’s practically sparkling at him. Crowley pulls away, just slightly, to stand straight. Look at him on level to play this game of theirs. 

“Tell me what to do, y’know, put the product and whatnot… you can read, during.”

Aziraphale leans his head back as Crowley’s fingers resume their kneading in his hair, “If it’s not too much trouble.”

A giggle hums past Crowley’s closed lips, and Aziraphale’s eyes crinkle at the corners, mouth curving softly. 

Yes, Crowley is aware of what just happened. He always is. No, he could not possibly care. Aziraphale knows, too. They’ve both gotten what they want. “Have you looking your best for tea,” Crowley says, breathy as Aziraphale palms his arse with a _squeeze._ “You can do me, mine, in return, if you-nn, if you’d like.”

“Which you know I _do_.”

“It’s a deal.

“Thank you.”

“Happy to,” Crowley says, earnestly, unashamed. As if he’d miss a chance to have a turn at Aziraphale’s hair. As if he’s ever, in thousands of years, passed up a chance to spoil his angel.

Which, wait, that makes him remember—he steps away with a soft groan, letting Aziraphale’s hands fall from him.

Aziraphale opens his mouth, a furrow between his brow. 

“I made you, uh.” Crowley snaps. He manifests a glass of cold lemonade from inside the cottage; just the right number of ice cubes click together as he tilts it, inspecting. Cold-but-not-too-cold frost blooms along the surface. 

Aziraphale takes the glass with a noise of delight, beaming. He closes his eyes with a happy little hum and takes a sip. Crowley’s hand lingers on him, trailing a hand down to one thick wrist, reveling in the fine dusting of hair and the smooth warmth as he watches him. His lips on the brim, the slow bob of his throat as he swallows. The small, sated a _h_ he lets escape, after. 

As soon as he pulls away from his drink Crowley kisses him, captures the bead of sweat on his upper lip, opens his mouth to his and licks at the tart lemon of his tongue. 

“My boy,” Aziraphale murmurs against him, “mm, what a treat.” He drops his lips to the side of Crowley’s face, firm against his tattoo, in thanks. 

“No, uh, no trouble, angel.”

“How _domestic_.”

The way Aziraphale says it, like this comfort between them—the little gestures, the everyday care—is just the most scrummiest sweet he’s ever had, has Crowley smothering some wild whine deep in his chest. Nevermind what it does to him, the breathy low of his voice felt right against Crowley’s ear. He shifts his gaze away from Aziraphale’s not-so-angelic smirk.

“Ngh, enough of that. Come on. Let’s take care of you.”

“Oh, goody!”

Gardening. Hair troubles. Lemonade and confectioneries aplenty (a surprise: waiting inside! oh, Crowley had earned himself that kip in the swing). Meeting the neighbors. Inviting guests, for tea. Just a couple married blokes in their garden on a hot summer day. 

He laughs, then, sudden and barking with happiness, with the moment, with this _peace_. 

Aziraphale answers him with a rush of Love so strong Crowley nearly trips over his own feet. 

“ _Angel—”_

But the blessed man only laughs at him, with him, gentle and full of fondness, before scooping up his hat and brushing it off. He plops it on his head without a care. “Lead the way, would you?”

Crowley is already turning. His body feels aflame, a low ebb thrumming under his skin. Centered at his heart, at the wedding band on his finger. Flowing in him like the smoothest wine. Better than Hellfire. He smiles as he hears Aziraphale huff a fond ‘oh, you’ as he has to quicken his pace to catch up. His own fault for teasing so. Crowley reaches back, finds him without sight. Shivers at the slide of his palm against the damp of his skin. He takes his husband’s free hand, links his fingers in his, and pulls him _home._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> The title is from the Wilde quote: "Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden when the flowers are dead. The consciousness of loving and being loved brings a warmth and richness to life that nothing else can bring."


End file.
